He distributed the sheets of fly paper about the room, in places where he judged them likely to do the most good, and had the satisfaction of seeing a number of the tormenting insects caught immediately. Then he tested the water in the boiler. It was warmer, even hot, but not boiling.
He had almost forgotten the dog, but now was reminded by the animal itself, who, having apparently swallowed the bone whole, began once more to howl lugubriously. Brown decided to let him howl for the present, and, going into the living-room, picked up an old magazine and began listlessly to read.
The howls from the yard continued, swelled to a crescendo of shrieks and then suddenly ceased. A moment later there was a thump and a mighty scratching at the kitchen door. The substitute assistant dropped the magazine and sprang from his chair.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed; “I believe—”
He did not finish the sentence. There was no need. If he had any doubts as to the cause of the racket at the door they were dispelled by a howl like a fog whistle. “Job” had escaped from durance vile and was seeking companionship.
Brown muttered an exclamation of impatience and, opening the door a very little way, peeped through the crack. The pup—he looked like a scrawny young lion—hailed his appearance with a series of wild yelps. His mouth opened like a Mammoth Cave in miniature, and a foot of red tongue flapped like a danger signal.
“Get out, you brute!” ordered Brown.
Job did not get out. Instead he yelped again and capered with the grace of a cow. His feet and legs seemed to have grown out of proportion to the rest of him; they were enormous. Down the length of his yellow back were three raw furrows which the nails of the box cover had scraped as he climbed from under them.
“Nice dog!” coaxed the lightkeeper's helper. “Nice doggie! Good old boy!”
The good old boy pranced joyfully and made a charge at the door. Brown slammed it shut just in time.